


My Battery is Low and It’s Getting Dark

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Death of Machine, Friendship, Gen, Loneliness, Set on Iris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 08:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17997995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: “I wonder what Grif is doing,” Simmons says a day after they’d left. He clears his throat before adding, “I mean, I know he’s eating. No one is guarding the fridge now when we left him all alone.”“He’s not alone,” Caboose corrects him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I left Freckles with him.”





	My Battery is Low and It’s Getting Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hazk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazk/gifts).



 

“I wonder what Grif is doing,” Simmons says a day after they’d left. He clears his throat before adding, “I mean, I know he’s eating. No one is guarding the fridge now when we left him all alone.”

“He’s not alone,” Caboose corrects him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I left Freckles with him.”

* * *

“You have got to be kidding me,” Grif says when he sees it.

It’s spinning around in a circle in the kitchen, like one of those toy racing cars with a broken controller.

It lifts each leg slowly, making the sudden change in direction towards Grif very intentional.

He gulps, wondering just how many are unhappy at him right now.

“So… You still mad about the new body?”

“Scanning for enemies.”

Grif, knowing the sting of a taser too well thanks to Sarge, flees to his bedroom.

He will pick up his evening snack later when the coast is clear.

* * *

 Grif is asleep, sprawled across the couch, when he is disturbed by something cold and metal bumping against his arm. For the briefest second his brain thinks it’s Simmons – Simmons back here, returning for him, choosing him – and then the robotic chipmunk voice calls out:

“Hindrance scanned.”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Grif mutters, rolling over and dragging his arm with him.

He doesn’t have the strength to deal with this kind of bullshit.

It’s one of the reasons why he’d told the others to leave.

* * *

Freckles has successfully infiltrated Blue Base.

It roams around restlessly, scanning and beeping. Maybe it thinks it’s on patrol or something.

Yesterday it shot and sat fire to Grif’s favorite pillow.

Which leaves him with no choice but to immigrate to Red Base.

“I’m home,” he calls out mockingly as he faces the remains they left behind. The entire place smells of Donut’s stupid candles. Empty shotgun shells are spread all over the floor. The screwdriver that Simmons uses to tighten the screws on his leg every Sunday has been left behind in their hurry and now lies abandoned on the kitchen desk.

Grif doesn’t stay in the living area for long. He flees to his bedroom and throws away all of the stuff that can remind him of Simmons (there’s a forgotten Esperanto book on the desk, an old shirt in the closet, and one of the blankets smells too much like him) before holing himself up in his bed.

He covers himself in the remaining blankets until all his senses are dulled. Then he waits.

* * *

 Grif doesn’t know much about robots.

He knows something about cyborgs.

But that’s because he knows Simmons. He knows Simmons the way he knows his oldest scar, the one time he fell and they had to stitch the skin on his knee. He knows where it ends and begins, he knows how it feels beneath his fingers, it’s soft and painful, and memories are connected to it. It won’t go away, even when he tries to cover it up.

Simmons is like an old scar. Something he can’t get rid of. He knows him too well.

Freckles makes a funny whirring noise every time it lifts a leg. It sounds painful, exhausting. Like the leg is too heavy. Gravity is winning (damn, Sarge was right all along). The struggle is familiar, and Grif lets himself pity it for a moment.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, surprised with how hoarse his voice has become. But hunger is a universal thing, he supposes. It keeps the world spinning. It’s familiar.

Freckles puts down its foot and looks up at him. It doesn’t shoot at him, at least.

It tilts its head (body? Main structure?) and stares at the chip Grif throws at it.

It doesn’t touch it, so Grif eats his snacks by himself and doesn’t feel guilty about it.

* * *

It takes weeks, but finally it’s becoming boring to stare at the ceiling and the waves and the empty bases. He is running out of snacks. Something is creeping up on him, and he isn’t sure if it’s the realization that being alone sucks or that he misses the others or that he’s made a mistake, but any of these revelations are unwelcome.

Iris doesn’t change. Grif refuses to change. The army has tried to change him, all along, but he is who he is: a lazy fatass who wants to stay in bed and eat. So it’s only fair he’s living the dream now.

Freckles is interesting because he moves. It moves back and forth, talks a bit. Mostly commands. Sometimes he scans Grif.

He isn’t sure what he is looking for.

Grif follows it around, from one base to another, down the shore, up the hills.

Despite it all, Freckles seems to have a purpose. It isn’t wandering, Grif realizes. It’s patrolling. Searching.

“Scanning,” Freckles says, and it only halts for a second before it moves on.

Grif can’t help but hope it finds what it’s looking for.

* * *

“This is the life,” Grif declares and looks up at the sky. He remembers looking at clouds with Kai when they were children. It’d been a nice change for Kai; a game where colors weren’t involved, only shapes.

“Scanning,” Freckles says and tilts its head upwards.

This is good, Grif thinks and sinks deeper into the grass.

This is what he wanted.

* * *

Grif doesn’t find what he is looking for.

The days grow longer, and the dissatisfaction doesn’t disappear.

The clouds become boring, the snacks run out, the bed has become uncomfortable. Too worn.

And the place doesn’t even have a proper internet connection.

“Hey, Freckles?” Grif calls out with a groan. He keeps the blanket draped around his shoulder as he begins his search. He knows the robot can’t fly. It can’t leave.

And yet he looks up at the night sky. The view is pretty, undisturbed. A few times he’s mistaken the stars with space ships. He’s learned not to become disappointed now.

“Yo, Freckles?” he calls and whistles. He knows it isn’t a dog, but Caboose certainly think it is.

And Freckles belongs to Caboose. He was made by Caboose. And that automatically makes it a monstrosity.

It makes sense that Freckles is waiting in front of Caboose’s room.

“Captain Caboose,” it says and bumps against the door.

Grif watches it back away, sped up, drive into the door. Then repeat the process.

“Captain Caboose,” Freckles calls again.

Well, that’s depressing.

* * *

Grif is aware of all the times he’s hit a new low in his life.

The time he sobbed in front of the officer that had dragged him into the army. The time he’d been forced to say he was a girl and that he wanted ribbons in his hair and he wanted to kiss all the boys. And the time he’d peed his pants as the ship crashed.

Taking Freckles on a walk is the new low.

“Come on, buddy,” he says as the robot follows him around. Freckles doesn’t talk much, but it’s there. It’s something. It’s all Grif needs. “We’ll make it.”

Freckles hums lowly. 

* * *

“Stupid robot,” Grif mutters and increases his speed. It doesn’t take long before he gasping for breath. “Stupido roboto. C’mon, Grif, you couldn’t even watch a single robot. And it’s small now. It’s super small and it takes tiny steps and _you lost it- you lost them all_ -“

“Detecting: orange one,” Freckles says after he basically steps on it.

It’s almost invisible in the dark of the night, stuck in the branches of a nearby bush. Its lights are dull.

“Why did you take off, buddy?” Grif asks, heart beating too fast for his liking. “You don’t hate me, do you? The others hate me, but I didn’t say to _you_ that I don’t like _you_ , and you’re a robot, and robot don’t feel things, at least, that’s what I think since Lopez doesn’t do the whole emotion thingy. Have you ever seen Lopez cry? Do you think he can cry? Why did you-“

“Detecting: low batteries,” Freckles says. The lights blink twice.

“Oh,” Grif says, gulping. “Oh…”

* * *

“Why are there no goddamn batteries in this base?” Grif mutters under his breath, tearing one cabinet open after another. “Plenty of dynamite, of fucking course, thank you Sarge, I’m sure that is relevant for-“

“Captain Caboose,” Freckles calls.

Grif bites his lips and curses every god that thinks it’s fun to torture him like this.

All he’d wanted was a break.

Not _this_.

“Don’t worry, buddy. It’s _Caboose_. He’ll come back for you.” Grif closes another empty cabinet. “They won’t leave you behind.”

“Ca-“

And then the lights go out.

Grif stares at it while it seems to curl in on itself; legs giving out as the power is depleted. It reminds him of an empty shell, a skeleton left behind.

When he pushes it gently with his foot, it remains standing but also unresponsive.

“…Freckles?”

Grif knows better than to have his hopes up.

He doesn’t bury Freckles. It seems too stupid, too meaningless. Metal doesn’t rot.

Instead he leaves it in a closet, wrapped in an old blue flag. Grif rubs the scar on his arm as he turns away.

Caboose will be back for it one day. He’s sure of that. They’ve lost Freckles too many times not to get him back again.

And maybe, Grif dares to hope, they’ll come back for him too.

For now, he has to fight someone-

- _something_ else to talk with.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Hazk! Thank you for being an awesome friend! And I still cannot believe you asked for Freckles angst, but here you go, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Mars Rover. You did a great job, Oppy!


End file.
